Without Having to Explain Oneself
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Set post-Christmas Special 2012, containing spoilers, Dr. Clarkson tries to help Isobel through her trauma, finding that his affection for her simply won't go away.
1. Chapter 1

**Immediately after watching the Christmas Special this came to me. It will be multi-chapter, and begins just after Matthew's funeral.**

**Without Having to Explain Oneself**

He could not see her at the funeral reception. He knew she would be there somewhere, she would see it as bad form, as disloyalty to her son's memory not to be present at all. But also he knew that she would not be able to have people's sympathy- however well-intentioned- poured upon her. Well, he didn't want to pour his sympathy upon her, but he had to know if she was alright. The knowledge that she almost certainly wasn't only made his need to find out all the more pressing. Discretely, he put his cup of tea down on a side table and left the gathering in the grand drawing room unannounced.

It took him a few tries, a few doors down the corridor, but he found her alone. Of that at least he could be glad. He closed the door of the small sitting room behind himself with a clearly audible click so as to announce his presence and avoid startling her, leaning back against the wood when she did not turn around. Her face was to the wide, bright window- where the sky was thick with cloud and rain- and he could tell from the slight quivering of her dark mourning-clad silhouette that she was sobbing quietly.

"Please," her voice issued softly and shakily, "Don't look at me."

He felt his whole body sigh in grief for her, and sink a little more deeply back against the door.

"Isobel," he murmured softly, "You don't have to hide anything from me."

He saw her body tense a little at his voice; obviously she had been expecting someone else to be there. Then there was a sniff, and he saw her wipe her eyes on the back of her hand before half-turning to look at him.

"Here," he crossed to her, offering her his handkerchief.

"Thank you," she accepted it gratefully, dabbing at her eyes and trying to get him to take it back.

"Please," he told her, pressing her hand softly back towards her body, the gap in her fist revealing that it had his initials embroidered on in small blue stitches, "Keep it."

"Alright," she replied, "Thank you."

She did not attempt to with draw her ungloved hand away from her body or away from his hand which held it. He found his thumb running down the back of her hand, trying to comfort her in any small way. When he glanced upwards at her face, he found her watching their hands together intently, as another tear trailed down her cheek.

"Isobel," he repeated, whispering this time, "Oh, Isobel."

He saw her throat clench tightly, and a tear trail from the other eye. Holding her hand firmly in his now, and pressing it tenderly to her body, he raised his other hand softly to her neck, caressing her throat with his thumb, trying to relax the tension. She spluttered a little in relief, and more tears fell forth.

"Come here," he told her, dropping her hand, lifting both of his hands to her face, wiping her tears away as best he could, chastely kissing her forehead and holding her to him. All the while, he had an idea that he had no right to do this- he had no right to kiss her hand let alone her beautiful face- but still it did not stop him from whispering again, "Come here, my darling."

It would have been a relief, almost, if it did not confirm and emphasise her pain, that she clutched at the lapels of his jacket, that she buried her face in his neck so he could feel her tears, damp and raw, because it let him know that she wanted him there, that she would allow him the comfort of comforting her like this.

They stood like that for a very long time, until her crying subsided, but then she seemed to break away very sharply.

"I'm sorry," she told him, giving a hearty sniff and stepping backwards a little, "I don't know what you must think of me."

She had not stepped so far back that he could not reach her, and his hands quite protectively lingered around her elbows.

"What kind of thing is that to say?" he asked her in a low voice, "You've just lost your son. I don't think I can imagine what you must be going through, never mind judging how you behave!"

"I've got no right to come to you like this," she told him, her hand half-concealing her eyes, her face tilting instinctively away from him, "I can't ask for your comfort."

"You didn't come to me," he reminded her, "I found you."

"I turned you down," she pressed, as if he needed reminding of it, "I have no right."

Her words stung a little, that she was suddenly willing to acknowledge the fact so directly. Nevertheless, he continued as good as undeterred.

"Do you want me here, Isobel?" he asked her, as softly as he could, "Do you _want _my comfort?"

She had turned sideways to him now, facing out of the window, her hand clasped into a fist over her mouth. His eyes never left her, and her tiny, almost involuntary nod, did not escape him. Already ready for her response, he simply opened his arms and drew her back to him. He heard her let out a sob, which did not sound too far removed from relief and she sank her head to rest against his chest, and under his chin.

"Then you may ask for it," he told her, "Rights don't even come into it, Isobel. I want to be here for you, if you'll let me."

He felt her hand clasp tightly onto his arm; she was still crying.

"Even if you did turn me down," he continued, "That wouldn't change the way I feel about you. I know... when I proposed... I didn't exactly make the best job of it," he was talking now, if only for the reason that it seemed to sooth her, along with the motion of him rocking her softly to and fro, "I didn't tell you how I feel. The time I've spent with you recently, Isobel, I've been so happy. I didn't want to just get married, I wanted to marry _you_."

Still, she said nothing, just allowed him to rock her gently, like a baby. Tenderly, he pressed another kiss into her forehead.

"I've lost my boy," she finally managed to croak, breaking through the barrier of her speechlessness, "My... my little boy."

"And everything," he nodded slowly, "Everything is going to seem so difficult for a little while. But I want to be there, Isobel, I want to try at least to help you."

"Richard," she whispered, "There is nothing to risk any more, now that he's gone. I wish, I wish to God that I could go mad and not know this was happening."

"Don't say that," he told her, his hand brushing softly against her face, "Please Isobel, don't say things like that. There are people it would kill to lose you."

"It would kill me to lose _him_!" she almost screamed, and he felt her limbs, her body, clench and convulse as she almost doubled over with grief, sobbing frantically. As carefully as he could, he lowered her to nearest sofa, keeping his arm around her for support, "I used to think that, when he was in the war. I used to think, if the telegram comes tomorrow, everything will just stop. Go black, and numb, and fade out until I'm with him and his father again. Only that hasn't happened now," she told him, "Everything _hurts_. There's no numbness. Just pain. Last night, I didn't know how I was going to face today. I'd rather have died than gone through it."

"But you've got through it," he whispered fiercely, tears stinging his own eyes now with the thoughts that she was bringing into his head, "Isobel, my darling, you are the strongest person I know. You fight. Against all odds, you fight."

"I don't want to fight any more," she told him, her body flopping limp, weak and childlike against his torso, allowing his hand to brush up and down her arm, "Not this. This is too hard."

"Isobel," he murmured into her hair, "You have a grieving daughter-in-law. You have a beautiful grandson, who you helped to deliver. You are the bravest of the brave."

Her hand was resting on his waistcoat, over his chest and it moved with the rise and the fall of his uneven breathing.

"How can you say that?" she asked feebly, "Now that you've seen me like this?"

"Because you need to do this," he replied, "You needed to let this out in order to be strong."

"I don't feel strong," she told him flatly.

"In order to go on, then," he amended, "In order to start. To try to begin."

He heard her let out a protracted and breathy sigh, sinking further against his chest. The sound of the rain outside increased, hammering a little harder, blurring the window panes into confusion bordering on oblivion. He wondered for a moment if her numbness was beginning to settle in, but the feeling that flooded the sound of her hesitant voice made him think otherwise.

"You'll be here, Richard?" she asked, almost shyly.

"Yes," he replied, not having to think about it, "However, whenever you need me."

She was quiet again for a moment, and he decided to be brave himself for a moment, to say what he was really thinking as he made that promise.

"All the love I can give you," he told her, "It's yours, Isobel."

"Richard," she murmured at last, her voice thankfully soft and unaccusing, "Take me home will you, please."

"Of course," he told her, then thought again, "You will be alright alone, won't you? There's no Ethel any more."

"I'll be as alright there as I would be anywhere else," she informed him.

"Yes," he agreed quietly- that had been what he had been worried about. But he said nothing else, helping her to her feet and then to the door, before loosening his hold on her even a little.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm not completely in love with this chapter- it was very difficult to write and I'm not quite sure if I've ever written anything quite like this before. **

He did not know whether she would want him there all of the time. Torn between concern for her and a fear of occupying a role in her life that she felt uncomfortable with, he kept a respectful distance over the next few days. Every time he passed he glanced anxiously at the windows of Crawley House, which were invariably dark or curtained. He did not like to think of Isobel alone in there but at the same time he knew that at times like this she found people stifling. He was conscious, though, that he had not seen her at all for four days- since the funeral- and nor had he heard anyone say that they'd seen her, either at home or outside. It was then that he decided; his worries took priority over her wish to shut the world out. So, buying a bunch of white lilies at the little florist's shop on the corner, he proceeded forth in the direction of Crawley House.

His knock at the door went unanswered for a long while, and he was about to go, thinking that she might be sleeping, but just as he turned around the door opened.

"Isobel?" he asked cautiously, as the door had not opened very far.

"Richard?" the door opened a little further and he got more of a look at her.

To say that she looked terrible was something of an understatement; she bore a rather shocking and ironic likeness to her son when Miss Swire had died. Her face was ashen, her eyes dark; he doubted very much if she had slept at all since he had last seen her. He thought for a moment that her hair was filthy, but then he realised that she had just washed it and that it was sopping wet; there was an unruly wet patch around her neck and shoulders. It was nearly three in the afternoon and she was still wearing her nightdress and dressing gown. He was vaguely aware that he was staring at her, but he was so shocked that he could not help it. The regret and shame he felt at having left her alone at all was tremendous; in trying to have consideration for her feelings he had been very stupid indeed. But at the same time he was palpably glad that he had come around to see her now, and not left it too late; there was hopefully still time to undo the bad that his negligence had done.

She was watching him almost warily; evidently perturbed by his silence.

"Come on," he told her softly, "Let's get you inside."

He was glad when she complied; padding gently down the corridor, seeming oblivious to her surroundings. This was almost eerie, he thought. He had seen patients go to pieces before, but seeing the same symptoms manifest in Isobel- _his _Isobel he almost thought, his darling Isobel- was just wrong. He wondered, as they progressed into the darkened sitting room, if what he was feeling now as he saw her like this was how it felt to have a broken heart.

Starting a conversation was difficult: there was no point in asking how she was or how she had been.

"I've brought you some flowers," he simply told her, holding them out and offering them.

"That was kind," she replied, her voice thankfully natural, if a little hoarse. She sounded like she'd been crying very recently. Taking the flowers from him, she took them away in the direction of the kitchen. He wondered for a moment if she was coming back, but when she did not return he followed her through.

She stood by the sink, filling a vase rather clumsily, as if she had not done anything manual for a few days. He hovered uncomfortably in the doorway.

"Have a seat," she told him without turning around, and he sank rather gratefully into the wooden chair against the wall beside the kitchen table.

She placed the flowers in the middle of the table and sat down in the chair opposite him. There was more light in this room than in the sitting room and it brought out the shadows under her eyes. She seemed small and very vulnerable, next to the rather towering and optimistic beauty of the lilies; she looked completely crushed.

"Great God," he whispered, "I had no idea that you were this bad."

She smiled rather weakly at him and was silent for a moment before saying quietly.

"I've always thought of myself as having rather a "life goes on" sort of approach. But what," her voice seemed to quiver and her eyes welled with tears, "What am I supposed to do without the person who was my life? How can things go on then? These past few days, I've been thinking and thinking and I can't seem to come up with an answer."

"Isobel, I'm sorry," he told her fervently, "I shouldn't have left you alone. I should have known better."

"It's not your fault," she replied flatly, "Anyway, you wouldn't have wanted to be around me in the state I've been in."

"Don't be ridiculous," he told her, a little sharply, "I was only worried that you wouldn't want me here."

There was a pause.

"You didn't want to be alone, did you?" he asked, rather frightened of what the answer was going to be.

"No," she admitted, "Not really."

"Will you forgive me?" he asked her, trying not to sound too imploring.

"Yes," she murmured, as much to the table as to him, "I will."

"You have been... taking care of yourself, haven't you?" he asked, more than aware that if she had she probably would look as bad as she did now, "I mean, you haven't been drinking anything, have you?"

"No," she answered, "I thought about it. But the thought made me nauseous."

Then, inexplicably, she smiled. Wanly, not quite reaching her eyes, but a smile nevertheless.

"What?" he asked.

"I was just thinking," she told him, "Of the day you drank too much and nearly asked me to marry you. I thought that marrying you might be... unsafe, that it risked upsetting my happiness. How naïve was I? I had no idea. Apart from anything else, I upset you."

There was a pause in which he tried to find a way to truthfully refute that assertion, and found he couldn't. Though he knew he told her none of this mattered at the funeral, that he had forgiven all, the days in between had obviously heightened her guilt again, and he could not deny that he had been a little hurt.

"It was selfish of me," she continued, "I'm sorry."

"There's no need to be sorry," he assured her, "You did what you thought was sensible."

"And was catastrophically wrong as usual," she concluded, "We were very happy then, weren't we?" she asked him, looking up at him carefully, "Until I spoiled things by saying no."

"I think I met you halfway with spoiling things," he told her sadly, "But yes, I was very happy with you."

They were both quiet for a few moments.

"Isobel, please," he leant forwards, reaching out towards her, taking both of her pale hands in his. She let him, but only tentatively. "I know how important your son was to you, I know he was everything to you, and without him everything seems bleak. But there can be happiness again. Once you feel well enough to find it."

Her thumb shifted under his, tiredly, as if trying to find a snugger hold. He parted his palms a little, allowed her hands to sink a little deeper in and closed them again, cradling her cold, elegant fingers. Something about the security he felt he was giving her, just by this small gesture, by the happiness it gave him to be able to give it to her made him feel brave enough to say:

"If you want to, and only if you want to, you can try to find it with me."

He felt her look up at him, and he met her eyes. Their usual black-brown was full of pain, but also an infinitesimal amount of of hope.

"You would allow me that?" she asked, "After everything?"

"Of course, I would," he replied, "I want to make you happy, Isobel."

They were quiet again, and he softly caressed her hands under his.

"I'm taking you home with me," he told her firmly, telling her without words that he would accept no argument. He supposed that he had decided this without realising it within seconds of seeing the state she was in, "I'm not leaving you alone again."

As he had predicted, she opened her mouth to protest and he cut her off.

"Either that or I'm admitting you to the hospital so that the nurses can keep an eye on you," he stated, "It would be completely irresponsible- it _was _completely irresponsible- to leave you alone. You can't expect me to do it again."

"No," she admitted, "I didn't expect it."

"Come on, then," he told her gently, "Get dressed and pack a suitcase for yourself."

Slowly, she got up and made her way towards the door. In the doorway, she turned back around, frowning.

"What will people think," she asked, more curiously than anything else, "When they realise that I'm living in your house?"

"Since when have you minded what people thought?" he asked her.

"I don't mind," she replied, "It's not of the slightest importance."

"I don't care so long as I know you're alright," he told her.

She didn't say anything, but he got the feeling as she turned away that what he had said might just have heartened her.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm so pleased that you liked the last chapter, it was a great relief. Thank you for the reviews! And tonight, I seem to have exploded with dialogue...**

"Richard?" she asked, sitting in an armchair in his sitting room, the evening light still pouring in through the thin curtains,"Is Mary still in hospital?"

"She is," he replied, "I thought it was best, all things considered. Anyway, the baby was too little to go home yet and she won't leave the baby."

"Hasn't she called him anything yet?" she wanted to know, a little startled.

He shook his head grimly.

"She won't," he told her, "She keeps saying "not yet". That's all she says if anyone asks her."

Isobel sighed.

"Will she see anyone?" she asked.

"Only her mother," he replied, "And Mr Branson. I suppose it's quite natural that she should want to see him of all people. They're sad in the same way. But she won't let anyone else hold the baby. She only lets me or the nurses take him off her because she has to."

There was a pause.

"She asked for you," he told her, "This morning. She asked to see you."

"Why didn't you tell me straight away?" she asked.

"I didn't know if you were well enough," he replied.

"I've been better," she insisted.

"I know you have," he replied calmly, "You've done ever so well. But still, I didn't know if you were absolutely ready and I didn't want you to feel like you had to see her if you weren't ready."

She had been better. Over the three days that she'd been living with him, she had got up at a normal time, got herself ready and dressed and, as far as he could tell, kept herself busy. She said she liked how the garden at the back of his house was in want of a bit of a tidy; it gave her something to do. He was glad; even if this was just a show she was putting on to impress him it was helping her to set up a normal routine, and if she felt the need to let the charade drop then he was here to pick up the pieces.

She seemed to accept his explanation.

"Will you take me to see them?" she asked, "Tomorrow? I feel guilty that I've been so self-absorbed since the funeral. I haven't seen them at all since."

"You mustn't feel guilty," he told her, "Nothing at all is your fault. But, yes, I will take you to see them. I think it would be good for you."

She almost gave him a smile.

"Thank you," she told him, sounding sincerely grateful, then realising, "Oh, but Richard! It's supposed to be your day off tomorrow."

"It doesn't matter," he assured her.

"But you don't want to have to go in to the hospital on your day off," she pressed.

"I don't mind it," he replied, "If anything, it will be a comfort just to make sure Lady Mary's alright. I learned my lesson with you," he told her pointedly, "It's the last time I leave someone in my care who's grief-stricken alone without checking up on them."

"I wasn't under your care then," she reminded him gently, "It wasn't your fault. You did everything you thought you could."

Inwardly he was still reeling at the fact that he should have known so much better, but he said nothing more on that note.

"Anyway, I want to go with you," he told her, "It won't be easy for you to see her. I want to be there with you."

"You don't have to," she told him, nevertheless, she was smiling as she said it.

"I want to," he repeated.

They were quiet for a few moments.

"Shall I make us supper this evening?" she asked, "You've done it every night so far, and I feel like it's my turn."

"I don't mind," he told her, "But if you want to. Your cooking is much better than mine is."

"Hardly," she replied, getting up and walking towards the kitchen.

It was certainly a good sign; however slightly, he had seen her smile three times during their conversation.

"Isobel," he spoke just as she reached the door. She turned around, framed a little by the light pouring in from the kitchen, "You look very pretty today."

He caught a fourth on her lips as she turned away again.

…**...**

"You're sure about this?" he asked her as they reached the hospital door, pausing on the steps,"You haven't had second thoughts?"

"She asked for me," she reminded him, "You said she asked for me."

"I'm worried about _you_," he told her.

"As if I needed reminding," she murmured lightly, then, "Thank you, Richard. There aren't many men who'd be as good as you've been to me and ask nothing in return."

"You know I don't ask anything?" he asked, wanting to be certain she knew.

"Yes, of course I do," she replied, "Sweet man."

Standing on the step above him, she ducked her head under the brim of his hat and kissed his forehead.

"Come on," she told him, opening the door of the hospital, and waiting for him, "We need to see Mary."

Only the lingering illusion of her eyes being on him stopped him from brushing his hand tenderly over the spot where she had kissed him as they walked together down the corridor to Lady Mary's room. Isobel knocked softly on the door. There was no reply.

"Mary, dear," she called, "It's me. Isobel."

"Come in," came Mary's voice after a pause.

Quietly, Isobel opened the door and let them both in. The room was just as she had left it before, only the crib that had been by the wall at the side of the room was now pulled up close to Mary's bedside. Richard had said that Mary was sleeping a lot, and like the dead, he had said; and it was true, she looked fairly install in the hospital bed. The baby was in the crib, asleep. While Richard fetched another chair to join the other at the head end of the bed, Isobel went straight to the crib where her grandson lay.

"Hello, Mary," Richard addressed her, sitting down, "Do you feel better today?"

"A little," she replied, "I'm still very tired."

"Do you feel like you might want to go home yet?" he asked, "Don't feel like you have to say yes," he added quickly, smiling kindly at her, "You can stay here as long as you need to as far as I'm concerned."

"Tomorrow, maybe," she replied, "If it's alright with Tom to come and pick me up."

"Has he been again today?" he asked.

"That was was his chair that you're sitting in," she replied, "He said he'd drive me back whenever I feel ready."

"That was kind of him."

"Yes," she agreed, "Very kind."

There was a sob from the side of the crib and they both looked around. Isobel was standing straight as a rod, her hand clasped to her mouth, trying to cry as quietly as possible.

"Isobel?" Richard stood up in his concerned, rounding the foot of the bed as quickly as he could to go to her.

"What is it?" Mary asked, panicking, "Is there something wrong with the baby?"

"No," Isobel spluttered, as Richard's arm went around her,"There's nothing wrong with him, he's beautiful. I'm sorry, just ignore me, I'm only being silly. It's just...he's changed so much since I last saw him. He's the spitting image of Matthew just after he was born."

"Is he?" Mary asked, her eyes wide, "You're sure?"

"Oh, my dear," Isobel half-beamed at her through her tears, "Of course I'm sure. I'll never forget that little face."

There was a pause; Isobel stood, craning her neck to look at the baby, with Richard's arm settled around her waist. Then, there was a tiny gurgle from the bundle in the crib and then a cry.

"He's awake," Isobel told them unnecessarily.

"You can hold him if you like," Mary told her shyly.

Isobel looked up at her eagerly.

"My dear, are you sure? It won't be upsetting for you?"

"No," Mary replied, "Please, hold him. See if you can get him to quieten down."

"Hello," Isobel whispered to the bundle of blankets and tiny limbs, "I'm your grandma."

She was crying again, but she was smiling too; and as she bit her lip and lifted him up into her arms to bounce him softly up and down, Richard's arm was still around her.

"Mary, I'm so sorry I didn't come to see you earlier," she told her, brushing her hand as softly as she could over the baby's head, "I realise now how selfish I've been."

"It's alright," Mary told her, "I know you would never willingly neglect anyone. I understand."

"Perhaps we should sit down?" Richard suggested, and he gently guided Isobel and the baby into the seat beside his.

"I remember," Isobel continued, "When I lost Reginald, everything everyone said, however well-intentioned, only made everything worse. I wasn't as used to grief then. So I thought I'd better leave you be for a while."

"And did it get easier?" Mary asked her, "With time?"

"No," Isobel replied sadly, "Not with time. With distraction. With Matthew. Of course he was more than a baby then. He saved me from myself. Like this little chap will, I promise you."

Mary did not look wholly convinced, but Isobel was sure, and she continued to examine the little baby's features.

"I wanted to talk to you about his name," Mary said at last.

"Of course," Isobel replied, looking up again, "I'd be honoured if you'd use me as a sounding board."

"More than that, I want your advice," Mary told her, "No one in the world knew Matthew better than you."

Richard watched Isobel bite her lip slightly, bite back another deluge of tears and succeed.

"We talked about it together, Matthew and I," Mary pressed on, "He liked to plan ahead. He was so excited."

"I know, I know," Isobel murmured.

"Is it selfish of me to want to call him Matthew?" Mary asked.

"Why would it be selfish?" Isobel replied, frowning.

"Because when I suggested it to him he laughed and said he'd feel terribly pompous if he did that," she explained.

Isobel smiled, and Richard was hard-pressed not to grin too; that certainly sounded like Mr. Crawley.

"Yes, that was like him," Isobel agreed, "But don't you think the circumstances have entirely changed now? He didn't think that he'd … that he'd have to be remembered this soon."

Richard heard her swallow the lump in her throat.

"And especially as he's so like him," she told him again, looking at the baby and then up at them both again, "Honestly, if either of you had seen him you wouldn't credit it."

"And then there's the middle name," Mary continued, "Matthew was adamant that we shouldn't be excessive about it, but he has to have one middle name at least. So we agreed that he'd have one, but we couldn't decide which."

"It's a start, anyway," Isobel told her encouragingly.

"He suggested Reginald," Mary told them both.

"I'm sure he did," Isobel replied, "That's exactly what he would have done. But can we have two generations in a row of Matthew Reginalds?"

"Well," Mary almost smiled for a moment at her mother-in-law's genuine apprehension at the idea, "I did wonder about that."

"It does run the risk of monotony," Richard contributed.

"Quite right," Isobel agreed, "And Matthew was so much like his father... By calling him Matthew you credit Reginald too," she told them both decisively, "You should choose a different name, don't feel guilty about it."

"Alright," Mary replied, "I had to think about Robert, but somehow it doesn't suit him. I didn't think it did, anyway. And then I thought about Tom?"

"Tom?" Isobel repeated, trying it out, "After Tom Branson?"

"Is that silly of me?" Mary asked, "After all the trouble I gave Sybil over him when he worked for us?"

"I'd say it was very kind of you, taking that into account," Isobel decided.

"He has been so kind," Mary told them both, "So very kind to both me and little Matthew. And he was such good friends with his father. I want to ask him to be godfather; I'm godmother to Sybbie."

"That's a lovely idea," Isobel replied.

"I wondered," Mary continued, "If you'd like to be too?"

"Me?" Isobel repeated, shocked, "But I'm his grandmother anyway."

"Both of you," Mary corrected, looking to Richard, "And I can't really ask Dr. Clarkson without asking you too, Cousin Isobel."

"Why?" Richard asked, completely bemused.

"Because whoever heard of a baby with two godfathers and no godmothers?" Mary asked, "But believe it or not, I asked Mama to ask Edith and she'd agreed to team up and make another pair."

"No, I mean why me?" Richard asked, "My Lady," he added for politeness sake.

Lady Mary smiled tiredly at him.

"Because you brought him into the world. Because you've known me all my life too and because Matthew thought very highly of you. He wouldn't want one of our high-flying cousins..." she glanced towards Isobel, "Well, he wouldn't, would he?"

"No, my dear," Isobel agreed, "He wouldn't."

"And, do you mind me saying this?" she glanced warily from one of them to the other, "You two will make a good team. And a handsome pair."

"Thank you very much, my Lady," Richard replied, flushing the colour of beetroot.

"He's nodded off again," Isobel announced quietly, nodding in the direction of the baby.

"I think we should be taking our leave, then," Richard announced in equally hushed tones, "I imagine you're quite tired too, my Lady."

"A little," Mary replied.

"We'll go then," Isobel agreed, "I'll but him down very gently. Goodbye, my darling boy," she whispered, kissing Matthew's forehead before settling him back in his crib, "Goodbye Mary."

Once they were outside the room and the door firmly closed behind them, they stood still for a moment.

"You feel better, don't you?" Richard asked her.

She was positively glowing.

"Yes, I do," she agreed, "But I miss that little baby already."

"We'll come back tomorrow, then," he told her, "She'll be glad to see you, and if she's getting ready to leave you will be a help to her."

"That sounds like a good plan," she agreed, as they began to make their way back down the corridor.

"What would you like to do for the rest of the day?" he asked. Usually, for the best part of the daytime he was at the hospital and she said that she was in the garden. This would be the first day when they were both comparatively unoccupied.

"I don't mind," she replied, "As long as I can spent it with you."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm sorry I didn't update last night; I had a cold and a raging headache and I want to do this chapter justice.**

He looked up in surprise as he heard a small tap on his bedroom door. It was late by now and he had been thinking of turning in properly; he had finished his glass of whiskey and the oil lamp that he had been using to read by was starting to give off a tired glow. It had been a long, but not altogether unhappy day; after having been to see Mary they took a drive together and then had some lunch in a country pub they had come across and liked the look of.

"Come in," he called softly, not without a little apprehension, though logically he knew it could only be Isobel.

The door opened slowly to reveal her standing in her nightdress, looking undoubtedly shy and leaning against the door frame. When her eyes flitted up at him their expression was dolefully apologetic.

"I couldn't sleep," she told him quietly, "Usually I think I might but tonight I know I'm not going to sleep for hours."

She seemed too shy even to ask to come in.

"It's alright," he told her, "I don't mind at all. Come and sit down."

She closed the door behind her, and he was glad of it because it kept the cold draughts out. Except when she chose to sit down on the edge of his bed rather than on the chair he had meant her to sit on, the atmosphere it created with the mild light and the closed door was disconcertingly intimate. They were both quiet for a moment, her sitting with her head bowed and her fingers spread out on the bedspread.

"Why couldn't you sleep?" he asked after a while, more curiously than accusingly.

"I'm not sure," she told him, "My mind just doesn't seem to be able to switch off. Perhaps too much has happened today."

"You may have jumped back into real life too quickly," he warned her softly, "I'm sorry, we should have taken things more carefully."

"It doesn't matter," she replied, "Please don't feel like you have to nursemaid me, Richard. I enjoyed today in many different ways; it was good to feel like we were some help to Mary and I loved meeting the baby properly. And I enjoyed this afternoon with you ever so much."

She moved her had gently over the bedclothes to cover his. It was a tender gestured, but he was more than set on edge by the fact that they had been clasped in his lap.

He had a feeling that he knew why she was really here. No fibre of his being, he found, could blame her either. He felt nothing but sympathy for her; he felt, he knew, that he wanted what she wanted too. But if it came to it, he didn't know if he could, like this. If he was honest with himself, he had wanted her for a very long time. He let out a long and rather a ragged breath, watching their hands.

"I-..." she began to say something else, but he cut her off, needing to ask her.

"Isobel," he spoke with his eyes shut, "Why are you here? Really?"

There was a guilty silence from her. He ran his thumb carefully over the back of her hand, trying to coax her to say it.

"I don't want to be alone," she admitted, "I don't feel like I can after today. After we left Mary, oh, I was happy at first because I'd seen little Matthew, but for a while, when we were in the car, I felt just like I felt after the funeral."

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, "You should have said something."

"It passed," she replied simply, "Once we got away from Downton I felt much better, but I couldn't quite forget it."

"Perhaps we shouldn't go driving any more," he wondered.

She smiled at him.

"Thank you, Richard, but I don't think cars cause me subliminal trauma. I think it was just seeing Mary, and having to talk about things with someone different. It was difficult," she paused for a moment, "She's being much braver than I am."

"Oh, nonsense," he told her, "For one thing, I can tell you that today was a very good day compared to the one she's been having."

"Don't worry," Isobel told him, "I don't envy her her courage. I just wish I could muster some of my own and sustain it to any degree."

"Isobel, don't put yourself down," he told her, "For one thing, you have a right to be more upset than Mary. Yes, she was married to him, but you knew him for all of his life. And she's a very pretty girl, she'll find another husband but you'll not have another son."

"No," she whispered her agreement, her eyes welling, "Not now."

"Oh, Isobel, it was careless of me to say that," he immediately felt a pang when he considered his words, "Oh, come here."

She put her feet up on the bed, beside his, and allowed him to wrap his arm around her and draw her close to him as she cried quietly. His arm rested over hers and their fingers linked together; her holding their joined hands close to her body.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, kissing the top of her head tenderly, "I shouldn't have said that."

"Don't be sorry," she told him, her tears seeming to be coming to a halt, "It was the truth. You only put it a little bluntly."

"It was very stupid of me," he replied, cross with himself, "I feel like a very heartless man and a prize idiot."

"Oh, Richard," she looked at him very tenderly, "Don't be silly. And don't say things that you know full well aren't true. You have such a heart, Richard, such a wonderful heart."

"I notice you don't disagree with prize idiot," he remarked, pretending to sulk.

She laughed a little.

"Well, perhaps there's some truth in it. Given that you seem to have set that heart of yours on me."

There was a heavy pause, both turning their head inwards to look at each other, their hands still linked and held near- rather dangerously near, he now realised- to Isobel's chest. It was purely by chance that she beat him to making the first move, bowing her head and kissing him. He tried to resist the temptation to deepen the kiss, but it proved entirely futile once she opened her mouth teasingly. Her mouth was soft and warm and tasted faintly of peppermint.

"It is, isn't it, Richard?" she whispered breathlessly once they broke apart, her eyes the tiniest fraction timid though her voice betrayed nothing but quiet certainty.

"Of course it is," he confessed, "I'm in love with you."

Such a relief came with saying it. Such a palpable relief when she kissed him again, accepting his words with her action. Her hand rose to cup his face, pulling him closer to her. He was not at all surprised by her next words, and equally dismayed when he gave the reply that he knew he had to.

"Richard, I need you."

Her hand slipped down over his neck, working under the open collar of his pyjama shirt.

"Isobel, my sweet, you know we can't."

Though she did pull back, it was not far enough to not make the plaintive, honest look she gave him disarming.

"No, I don't," she replied, "Richard," she told him, more imploringly, "I don't want to be alone," she repeated, "Don't make me."

"It would be wrong of me," he insisted, "It would be taking advantage of you; you're more vulnerable than you realise."

"Oh, yes," she agreed, a touch angrily, "I know I'm vulnerable at the moment. I'm vulnerable to feeling lonely, to feeling like the world I knew has been shattered into pieces. Richard, don't you realise that when you're not here to convince me otherwise, I don't feel safe any more? I feel as if I'm just waiting to lose more and more until everything I love is gone. That's how I feel. I'm vulnerable to feeling like there's no place for me now, like I'm not wanted."

"Don't feel like I don't want you," he told her, picking up on this final strand, "If only you knew! But still, you can't know that you wouldn't regret this tomorrow."

"Richard, I'm not asking you just for tonight," she told him.

He swallowed hard. If someone had told him that one day he would even attempt to turn Isobel Crawley down, he would have said they were delirious. But then again, he would have said they were if they told him that he would ever make love to her.

"Richard," he heard her whisper again, watching his face intently.

Not that he hadn't imagined it either. But they had always been man and wife, they had always been happy, lying in their marriage bed in a state of Arcadian bliss, holding each other through the most vibrant orgastic pleasure. Never lying in his bed at home- plenty of room for one but cramped for two-, her face still not quite dry of tears, trying, quite frankly, to screw away the pain of the world. But he looked back at her; they would never be like that.

"Richard," she repeated, "You could never take advantage of me. You could never take something that I wasn't willing to give; you wouldn't. That's why I feel safe with you."

Softened by her words, he reached out and kissed her again, as deeply as before, but more slowly, drawing every sinew of feeling and breath from her lips.

There was a moment when they broke apart, where they faced each other, still touching, still softly holding one another. The last moment in which they could possibly have turned back.

"Richard," she spoke, her voice barely louder than her rapid breathing, "Don't leave me like this. You can't leave me like this."

She broke him.

"No, my darling," he agreed quietly, wrapping his arms more tightly around her, "I won't. I promise, it's alright, I won't."

They kissed each other thoroughly, half sitting up in bed, slowly sinking back into the pillows together. His hands brushed her sides carefully, only stopping at her breasts when their lips broke apart. He wondered how he had restrained himself for this long; her nightdress was ludicrously thin and in the light of the oil lamp he could see the faint outline of each of her breasts through the fabric.

"Oh, Isobel," he gently cupped her softly flesh through the thinness of her nightdress, drawing a soft moan from her lips, before he gently pressed his back against them.

"Come here," she told him once they had broken apart, fiddling with the buttons of his pyjamas and gradually exposing his chest.

He felt a little abashed; he knew he was no special sight for her, but she seemed unperturbed, pleased, even.

"Richard," she murmured, pushing the garment off his shoulders, kissing the exposed skin, rubbing her palms over his nipples in the most wonderful way, "Richard, you're..."

He saw that her cheeks were highly flushed.

"What?" he pressed her nevertheless, curious.

"You're gorgeous," she finished, "I never imagined."

He did not know what to say to her, he was so glad not to have let her down. Her hands brushed softly down the smatterings of hair in the centre of his chest, round to his back to hold him tightly to her. He bowed his head to kiss her again; her lips, her jaw and down, the elegant line of her neck, her collarbone, as low as the neckline of her nightdress would allow.

"May I?" he asked, lifting the hemline of her nightdress just a fraction.

"I'm not wearing anything else," she warned him, as much for his sake as for hers, it seemed. She looked into his eyes, asking, half-curiously but with a hint of teasing, "Does it shock you that I came here like this?"

"Less that I thought it would," he replied, kissing her lips again, "And it pleases me very thoroughly."

"Go on, then," she told him, "But don't get your hopes up about my wildly youthful figure."

"Don't worry," he told her, moving down the bed, kissing her ankle as he lifted the fabric, "Don't even think about it," kissing the inside of her knee, then her thigh, "You'll always be beautiful to me. You couldn't not be."

Her nightdress was thrown on the floor, and he looked at her thoroughly, in the pale romantic light, drinking in the sight of her.

"Isobel," he told her, reaching out for her bare breast, caressing it tenderly, but firmly enough to bring a hearty moan from her lips, "You're so beautiful. You're-..."

He sank his speechless mouth against the peak of the other breast; lavishing attention to her nipple, biting it softly, while his hand graced down over the gentle curve of her stomach, her hips, to press carefully between her legs.

Her eyes flew open at this barest of sensations. He opened her legs a little further, sinking down between them, kissing over her stomach, further and further down until his mouth reached where his hand hand been a few moments earlier.

"Richard," he heard her voice only vaguely, distantly, "You don't have to."

"I want to," he replied, withdrawing reluctantly, "Great God, Isobel if only you knew how much I want to."

With that, he sank his lips back down to her, pressing her folds apart with his tongue, his hands holding her hips steady, his tongue dipping inside her. He knew she was close from the tension he could feel in her hips, as the taste of her filled his mouth, thick and wet and beautiful, but still he was surprised by the force with which her body shook around him as she finally came crashing down; her hips rocking uncontrollably, her head thrown back in bliss. He drew her to him, gently stroked her back as the tremors continued to course through her, trying to calm her.

Finally, when her eyes flitted back open she gazed at him with radiant eyes.

"Richard," her breathing was still laboured, "Thank you."

She kissed him once.

"You're welcome, my love," he told her, "You are alright?"

"Yes," she whispered contentedly, "I'm wonderful."

"That's good," he replied, smiling, pulling her firmly into his arms, reaching to turn out the light, kissing her forehead, "Goodnight, my love."

In the dark he felt her stiffen.

"Richard, what about you?" came her voice.

"I'm fine," he told her, "I don't need-..."

"No, but you want," she told him smartly, "At least that's what it felt like, up against my thigh."

"Tonight isn't about me," he responded, cursing himself for not having been more careful, "Isobel, you are under no obligations."

"Oh, obligations!"

It startled him immensely when he felt her hand slip against his body and under the waistband of his pyjama trousers, taking him between her long, slender fingers.

"Isobel!" he gasped, "You don't-..."

"Richard, don't you dare argue with me," she told him, moving her hand around him just a fraction, and hearing the soft gasp that slipped from his lips, "If you think for a moment that I'm going to let you send me to sleep when you're... in a state when you've just made love to me like nobody's ever done before, then you have another thing coming."

Deftly, she pushed his trousers to his ankles and off, surprising him by pulling him to her so that her legs were wrapped around his waist and his arms around the top of his shoulders and his back, cradling his head.

"Please," she whispered in his ear, "Just take me. I want you to. I love you, Richard. I want you to."

He knew he let out a near guttural moan at the sound of her words and could only hope that it didn't put her off too much. As gently as he could, given the raging passion he was suddenly feeling, he moved forwards, pushing right into her. Her long abstinence was betrayed by the fact that she was exquisitely tight and he stopped, gasping, for a few moments, trying desperately not to hurt her. Her eyes were clenched tightly.

"I'm alright," she whispered, "I'm fine."

She settled her legs more snugly around him and he took that as a sign that it was alright for him to move. Knowing he would not last long, he slipped his hand between their bodies, rubbing her gently, determined not to leave her behind. His face buried in her neck, he rocked them both to a heady climax, each coming within moments of the other, and clutching tightly to one another as they shook through their release.

"Oh, Isobel," he murmured when settled back down; he tried to move so as not to squash her, but she pulled him back over her.

"Richard," her hand stroked his hair, "Darling Richard. I love you."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	5. Chapter 5

He woke to find her pillow empty, and he thought for a moment that she had gone, but, turning over to look more carefully his leg moved a little and nudged her foot and then he saw her. She was sitting up halfway down the , still naked, her knees hugged up to her chest and partly covered by the bedclothes. Her hair was loose and tumbled prettily down her back.

He reached his hand softly out to her, to let her know that he was awake, brushing softly against the side of her beautiful back that was furthest away from him, cupping around her side to hold her hip, so that when she lay back down and settled back against him, his arm wrapped protectively around her. She kissed him on the cheek, then on the lips and then rested with her forehead pressed against his cheek for a while.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"A little bit sore," she confessed, "But, yes, I'm fine. More than fine."

"I'm sorry," he apologised, "I should have been more careful."

"I'm glad you weren't," she replied quietly, "It's not a particularly painful kind of soreness. More of a reminder."

She smiled up at him quite shyly, and he stroked him hand over her arm.

"Hello, my lover," she whispered up to him, as if this was their first moment of their waking, "Do you mind if I call you that?"

"Not at all," he replied, "But I'd sooner you called me your husband."

There was a pause. Neither of them moved a muscle.

"You'd still be my lover if you were my husband," she pointed out, "I hope. In the important way, at least."

She did not say anything else for a few more moments, and he stroked her hair with great absorption. In the little light that reached them from the window, her hair was all kinds of nocturnal colours.

"You said you were happy when we were together before..." he reminded her softly, "I only thought... Well, I still wanted to ask you."

"You should have asked me like this before," she told him, "You might have had more luck then."

He waited for her to go on, but she did not, and he found that, given such a hint, his heart was suddenly hammering so much that he could wait for a reply or risk interpreting it wrongly.

"Are you saying that I've had more luck this time?" he asked, hardly trusting his voice.

She turned further over to face him, then leant forwards and gave him another kiss on the lips.

"Yes, Richard," she replied, "I am."

"Oh, Isobel!"

His arms went fully around her and he just hugged her, burying his face in her hair; his heart hammering now with happiness.

"I was a fool to turn you down," she whispered in his ear.

"You're a fool to take me now," he replied, "But I love you so very much for it."

She let out a happy little laugh, and they settled back still, to lie again in each other's arms.

"But we can't get married just now," she warned him, "We'll have to wait a little while first."

"Yes," he agreed, then paused, "But I want to live with you now." There was another pause, "And I think if there's ever a time when we need each other, then it's now."

"Yes," she replied, thoughtfully, "That's true. Beyond a doubt, that's true."

They were quiet for a few moments, his thumb resuming the pattern he had been tracing up and down her arm.

"It seems we're damned whatever we do," she agreed, "If we get married now people will say it's too soon and that we're not showing respect for Matthew's memory," he felt her jaw tighten against his in anger. He kissed her softly, trying to make her relax.

"They'll say that we're being disrespectful to him if we live together straight away though," he pointed out, "And that we're living in sin."

She sighed heavily.

"Damn everyone," she murmured fervently, her head lolling back a little in frustration,"I know I shouldn't say it, but damn everyone."

He had never before realised that she got angry with people, with injustices. Cross, maybe, or she just carried on regardless of what anyone thought, but never quite got properly angry. But usually, he thought, she never felt this weak nor did the problems seem quite so insurmountable.

"I can't be without you, Richard," she told him, "Not after... this," she gestured towards their legs under the blankets, still pressed and linked close together, "I won't. You're the last thing I have, and I won't let them take you away from me. I'm sorry, but I won't."

He smiled a little.

"Don't be sorry about that," he told her, "Not for me."

She smiled wanly, but nevertheless he saw that the frown remained pushed deep into her forehead.

"You know," he told her softly, contemplatively, "They'll say less if we just get married. At least they can't say that we're living in sin. It's either than or sneaking into each other's houses on alternate nights. And someone," he smiled a little to himself, imagining the look on his face if it happened to be Molesley- it made an amusing mental image-, "Would catch us."

She thought about that for a moment.

"And if we didn't have any celebrations," she mused, "No reception or anything, we could hardly be accused of decadence."

"No," he agreed, "But are you alright with that?"

"I'm marrying you, not the reception," she told him flatly, "I'm quite glad of the excuse to get married quietly. The family up at the house seem less and less like my family with every day that passes since his death."

"Except that little boy," he reminded her.

"Yes," she nodded, "Of course. I have to be there for Matthew if I can't be here for his father."

"But you were here," he reminded her, soothing his arms over her, rubbing her back and kissing her hair, "You were so very much here. And that's why you're so hurt."

He knew that she would not agree to that out loud, but he thought he felt her give a very small nod.

"I'll get us a licence as soon as I can," he whispered, "And I'll take you out afterwards. We'll get something nice to eat or we can go for a walk-..."

"Or you can drive me back here straight away," she continued for him, "Hold me; make love to me."

He smiled at her.

"If you insist on it."

"Oh, I think you'll find I will."

"I love you, Isobel," he told her, watching her closely as her mouth quirked up in a wonderful smile and her eyes glittered in the dark.

"I love you too, Richard," she replied, "And I'm sorry. I should have loved you more in the past."

"Don't think of it," he told her, "The past is the past, and we can only make up for it now."

Her hand brushed his chest, softly.

"Let's make up for it now, then," she told him, moving further over to kiss him.

**End.**

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